


The Waiting Game

by Eireann



Series: Jag [3]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen, Survival Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2263668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ensign Malcolm Reed has begun training for life as a Section 31 field operative.  In the Section, however, nothing is what it seems to be...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delighted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/gifts).



> Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.
> 
> This story has been beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom I am, as always, indebted.
> 
> Warning: This story contains scenes which some readers may find unpleasant. 'Graphic' may be putting it strongly, but please be aware that the content will not be to everyone's taste.

He shook the last drops of water from his hands, and stood up.

The night was coming.  It was imperative that he find shelter, because he had no idea how cold it would get.  At least he’d found water, and drunk his fill, so that wouldn’t be a problem.  Food might become so, though he wasn’t particularly hungry yet, but in a forest like this there was bound to be something he could harvest or trap.  Right now, however, he wasn’t confident enough to simply throw up a bivouac and light a fire.  He had the strangest feeling that he was under observation, and the strength of that conviction made him want to find some very defensible place to shelter in.  When he had that, he would set about lighting a fire.

The briefing – such as it was – had assured him that he was alone on the planet except for the creatures native to it.  It was not inhabited.  He simply had to survive there for three months.  At the end of that time, the people who’d left him there would come back for him.  If he was still alive, he’d have passed the test.  If he wasn’t, well...

They wouldn’t bother looking for anything left to bury.

It could have been a chilling thought, but for Ensign Malcolm Reed it was oddly comforting.  He liked things to be clear and straightforward, and it didn’t get a lot clearer or more straightforward than this. 

He’d done his basic survival training for Starfleet, at which he’d excelled – as he did in most of his subjects, because he put in the work.  It made sense that the training to be a field operative for Section 31 would be a lot more stringent. Working under cover, there would be periods when he'd have no-one to call on for backup if he got into trouble. Quite long periods, perhaps. His new handlers would have to be sure he could cope.

He was under no illusions that the next quarter-year would be easy for him, but he was confident that he wouldn’t have been placed here if survival was impossible. The loneliness that would have been one of the worst challenges for most of his colleagues was to him an object almost of indifference.  He had no liking for casual chit-chat at the best of times.  Here, he could rely on nobody but himself.

The forest appeared to be located on rising ground, and he began following the course of the stream upwards. He had no way of knowing how readily available water was on this world, and since it was one of his basic survival needs he would not abandon it willingly.  Basic geology suggested that higher ground was likely to be stonier and less thickly vegetated; the first would hopefully provide him some kind of sturdy bolt-hole, and the second would provide less concealment for anything that might have the idea of sneaking up on him.

He followed the stream patiently for a few hours.  The sun had been high in the sky when the shuttlepod had dropped him off, but it was declining by the time the trees thinned and he got his first clear look at the heights above.

He hadn’t been allowed to look out of the shuttle, so it came as a shock to find that he was in terrain that back on Earth he’d have expected to find in the Himalayas.  The forest appeared to occupy a valley, but all around it jagged, white-capped peaks soared towards the sky.

It was stunningly beautiful, but at that moment admiration for its beauty was not his foremost reaction.  He had been given no information as to what season this area was in, or what variations in temperature or weather conditions he might expect.  It was wholly possible that winter was setting in – and at these altitudes it would be a winter that he would be very hard pressed to survive without stout shelter, warm clothing, and above all, plentiful stocks of food. 

He gathered himself together.  It was pointless to lament his lack of even a scanner or a phase pistol; all he had were his training and his wits, plus the one thing he’d been allowed to bring with him – a twenty-five centimetre survival knife that would probably be the difference between life and death. Those were what he would have to use.

Ahead of him the ground grew sharply steeper.  The stream appeared to have its source high above; possibly it was melt-water from the base of a glacier, for it dropped in a silver string down several vertical faces of rock further up, bursting into spray where it encountered an outcrop.

The broken look of the rocks suggested that there would be caves, or at least fissures, in which it might be possible to take shelter.  The lack of vegetation, however, suggested that food would be hard to find.

The nagging sense of being watched was still with him.  He swung an uneasy look around.  The forest had thinned out, but there was still enough undergrowth to conceal anything that really wanted to stay out of sight.

Water and protection had to be his priority.  Ideally he could find somewhere sheltered enough to let him build a fire, and fire would see off most predators.  As he’d walked he’d stripped vines from trees where he could find them and put together a keep net, which he’d filled with pieces of dry wood from fallen branches.  A stand of bursting plant-pods had supplied him with the native equivalent of cotton, which he’d stuffed into his pockets for use later.  He’d already hunted out a stone from the stream bed that would produce a satisfactory spark when struck with the hilt of his knife, and thus provided he was confident that actually starting a fire would pose little difficulty.  Keeping one going for a long period might prove more problematic, but he’d worry about that later, when the cold prickle at the back of his neck was no longer nagging at him.

He paused long enough to gather some more brushwood, with thoughts of the night to come and what might be prowling in it, and then when he had as much as he thought he could carry without over-burdening himself he set off again, once more staying close to the stream.  There was an area perhaps half a mile higher up that looked as though it was of a more brittle stone than much of the rest of the massif, or perhaps it had been exposed to some form of extreme stress at some point.  It was riddled with fractures.  Perhaps one of them might be large enough to afford him shelter in which to wait out the night; and then next day, when hopefully he felt safer, he could set out to do a little more exploring.

His boots were well-made and sturdy, with good grip on the soles.  It was fortunate, because the stone had split into huge plates and the surfaces of these were so smooth that even with the help of his footwear it was hard going.  In between each slab were treacherous rivers of scree that were even worse; he attempted to negotiate a way up by one such, and ended up sliding more than twenty metres back down before he managed to regain control.  After that he was more wary, and contented himself with looking for crevices that provided toe- and finger-holds that would help him ascend almost on hands and knees.

He was within perhaps a hundred metres of a split in the rock that he’d picked out as potentially large enough to hold him when something flashed past him, and he identified its fleeing shape as something that resembled a rabbit.  The fact that it was running _past_ him rather than _away_ from him set alarm bells shrilling in his brain, and he jerked around to look behind him.

His instinct had been sound.


	2. Chapter 2

His first thought was that they were wolves, but they were bigger than any Earth wolf; the tallest was almost the height of a Shetland pony.  They were running silently, ears flat, long silky fur rippling in the wind of their going. Their heads were held low, showing him the massive strength of the shoulders behind as the bodies bunched and flexed.  Their eyes were as blue as the summer sky, and fixed unwaveringly on _him._

He didn’t waste time counting them – there were more than enough, and that was all that mattered.  Nor did he stop to wonder if they were friendly.  They weren’t.

The knife wasn’t going to save him, not in the open, not against that lot.  Dropping his wood, he flung himself around and ran.  There was no time now to look for footholds, and if he slipped he was a dead man.  The endless half-second during which he’d assessed his danger had been enough to show him that their wide soft paws found excellent purchase on the slippery stone, and that their speed was great enough to run him down if he failed to make maximum use of every step.  Even if he didn’t, it might not be enough.

Thought vanished as he lunged upward, his first leap from an almost standing start propelling him like an Olympic sprinter.  His entire consciousness closed into the necessity of survival, became as ferociously focussed as that of any one of the creatures behind him.

There was no time to spare even for a second glance behind him.  He knew without looking how they would be gaining on him.  Their footfalls were silent, but soon he could hear their breathing.  They were expending effort that they expected to be rewarded.

He could have felt bitterness; the shuttle had scanners, and those aboard it must have been able to detect the presence of predators like these in the vicinity.  That, however, would have been only a distraction, and he could afford none if he was to survive.

As the cranny drew closer, with long, drawn-out, agonising slowness, as though his every desperate leap was made through treacle, it came to him that he was going to die here, torn to pieces on a bare mountainside under a nameless star.

Then, from almost beneath his feet, the rabbit-creature suddenly exploded back into the sunlight.  It must have decided its hiding-place wasn’t good enough, or perhaps the hunt’s arrival just broke its nerve.  At any rate, he all but fell over it.

Surprise became realization became action.  He grabbed the beast, only succeeded in catching it by one hind-leg, and even as he pitched forward he twisted and threw it behind him.  It was only airborne for a couple of seconds, and then its scream echoed around the mountainside. 

It was hardly more a mouthful, but up here every mouthful was precious.  As precious as the seconds that it took him to regain his momentum, scrambling forward and launching himself up to run again while the pack tore the furry scrap apart. 

Those seconds saved his life.  The cranny was shallow, but it was deep enough to wedge himself into backwards, hunched up small. 

He threw himself down and scrambled into it.  It was so narrow he couldn’t even turn around; he was stuck, within easy reach of those teeth.

They were on him almost before he could draw breath, but he’d drawn the knife first, and thrust it between the first pair of open jaws that came for him, stabbing downwards to pre-empt the snap; the head withdrew with a shriek of shocked agony.  Two or three others took wounds before they too withdrew, snapping and squealing furiously. 

The pack entirely blocked out his view of the outside world.  His wrist had taken a cut and he hadn’t even felt it, but it wasn’t deep enough to be immediately dangerous and hadn’t done any serious damage.  He clapped his free hand over it and thrust the knife at the row of snarling muzzles, trying to drown their savage cries of frustration and rage by bellowing every invective-laden curse he could bring to mind.  They wouldn’t understand the words, of course, but the noise was everything: he had to sound threatening, had to dent their confidence that now he was cornered he was easy meat.

Fortunately for him, they weren’t stupid.  After the first few had received deep gouges on their muzzles or mouths, the rest took the hint.  They withdrew just out of blade range, glaring at him with hating, hungry blue eyes and testing his reflexes with little lunges as soon as his attention wavered.  Almost half of them bore souvenirs of his quick reactions by the time they seemed to realise that he wasn’t going to be taken by surprise.

At first he was elated when first one and then another backed away, and then, as though discouragement had spread to the rest, the remainder followed suit.  The largest, however, was obdurate.  He hovered just out of range, snarling on a long, low, blood-curdling note; strings of pink-stained drool dropped from his lower jaw.

A couple of the younger-looking wolves began looking around as though weighing up the prospects of success – it was difficult not to anthropomorphise the beasts, but growing up in a family that owned dogs, Malcolm was familiar with their body language and he supposed that evolution along the same lines would produce at least some similarities in behaviour.  Their ears and tails drooped.  Evidently they’d given up hope of a quick, easy kill. 

Now, if this big bastard in front of him would just do the same...

There seemed little likelihood of it.  The wolf shifted from paw to paw, but his gaze never wavered.  The slightest movement sent his upper lip writhing off his teeth in a fearsome display of ferocity, and it was obvious that the other members of the pack deferred to him.  He’d decided he wanted prime rib of Starfleet ensign for supper, and he wasn’t going to give up that easily.

Without taking his central attention from the beast in front of him, Malcolm began casting around for anything he could use as a weapon other than his knife.  It was a working certainty that even if he had them to hand, thrown stones wouldn’t be much of a deterrent.  Fire certainly would, but although he still had the means of kindling one, now he had nothing for it to feed on if he succeeded.  Regrets over dropping everything he’d been carrying were futile; if he hadn’t done so, he would never have reached his present refuge.

He still had his pocketful of fluffy fibres.  He might be able to set light to some of it, at least scare some respect into the brutes.  Trouble was, it wouldn’t burn for more than a few seconds up here where there was a constant wind.  As soon as it was gone, so too would be whatever fear it engendered.

He soon came to the conclusion that his only friend was time.  They couldn’t get at him.  Even the big one would have to get tired of waiting eventually.  They were only animals. 

Perhaps half an hour had passed when the big one seemed to reach the same conclusion.  With a last growl he turned away.

Malcolm’s stifled gasp of relief was premature, however.  The rest of the pack had been waiting for a signal as to their next move.  Their leader walked only a couple of dozen steps before he turned around and flopped down, and lay, head on paws, watching the cranny and its friendless occupant.

He, too, knew it was down to the waiting game.


	3. Chapter 3

Dawn came after an endless night which had followed an endless evening.

Malcolm raised eyes burning with weariness to the sky, hoping against hope to see a sign of cloud.  Not that rain offered much prospect of rescue; animals that lived in these surroundings must be well accustomed to bad weather.  They were hardly likely to give up the prospect of a good feed because they didn’t like getting wet.  Even fog wouldn’t be much help.  It might hide him from view for the moment it would take him to get out of the cranny, but dogs have excellent hearing and even if they couldn’t see him they would certainly be able to hear him – and smell him.  It would also hide _them_ from _him_.  They might wait till he was in the open, till they’d circled around between him and his refuge, and then they’d have him.

There was no sign of cloud.  As the first smears of light spread across the sky, the snow on the mountain tops slowly lit with lilac. The beauty of the scene, which ordinarily he would have admired, was lost on him. Humped shapes in front of him took on form.  More than one of them bore fresh wounds, testament to terrifying moments in that unending night when he’d realized that yet another of them had crept up, inching stealthily closer and closer, patient and deadly.  He knew they had no intention of closing with him.  They’d jump in, bite and run, leaving him bleeding and weakened.  One had actually succeeded in doing it, and he had teeth marks in his left thigh to prove it, though the culprit had got a blade in the side of the head for his trouble, and from the sudden shrill yammering and snarling out there afterwards he suspected that _wounded_ was the same as _eaten._

Tired; he was so tired.  In ordinary circumstances he could have coped well enough, but the unbearable strain of listening for every tiny sound and searching the dark continually for the slightest suggestion of movement through every moment of a long night had been absolutely draining.  Even the pain from his bitten leg, which had at first been sickening, was beginning to pulse less strongly as his brain blocked it out in the need for sleep.  They, of course, were able to take turns napping.  Several of them were clearly asleep now, curled up with their heads tucked under their tails.  The rest of them watched him patiently.

“Bastards,” he muttered.  His mouth was dry.  How long could one survive without water?  Not half as long as one could without food.  Maybe it might rain, though there was no sign of it yet.  The rock had kept the worst of the wind off him overnight, though he was very cold.  Rain, however, could be at once a blessing and a curse.  It would assuage his thirst – he thought he could suck up enough from the stone to get by on, if it rained hard enough – but unless he was very, very lucky with the wind direction, he would get soaked.  Up here, it was already cold.  He’d survived the night because he was dry and had shelter.  Assuming he lived through the day, then would come another night, with no food, and ever-increasing tiredness, and wet clothing to aid heat loss... .

No one lived here.  No one would come to his rescue.

He was too young to die, but he was going to die anyway.  A ‘promising career’, cut short to feed a pack of mangy damned wolf-things on some godforsaken planet.  He laughed bitterly, and the wolf closest to him snarled.

The game resumed.  He tried to keep awake, but since he was lying sideways he couldn’t keep his head up indefinitely and as soon as he rested it against anything his eyelids began to droop.  He tried talking and even singing to keep himself awake, but thirst was beginning to bite harder, and his tongue was growing clumsy with exhaustion; over and over again he found himself slurring and stumbling into silence, and the diminution was noted with interest by his ever-attentive audience.  It was noticeable that each time his voice fell silent and his eyelids fluttered shut, when he opened them again the wolves had crept an inch or two closer.  It was a nightmare game of Grandmother’s Footsteps.  Each time the stab of fear would inject enough adrenaline to jerk him wide awake, but all too soon the silence and the weariness would lull him again, and his eyes would begin their inevitable loss of focus as sleep once more oozed over him.

As slow and patient and inexorable as frost, the semi-circle closed in.

Mid-morning there was a little disturbance among the pack and he raised his head hopefully, but his brief flare of spirits fell when he realised that it was merely the arrival of another couple of them.  One of the newcomers was darker than the others – most of them had grey fur splashed with brown and black, but this one was almost completely black.  It approached the pack leader, who was presently sprawled out in magnificent abandon on the rocky sill, and the two of them licked each other’s muzzles in greeting.  Unlike the others, there was no postural abasement, and as the newcomer turned it was visible that the glossy dark flanks were bulging.  A female, carrying puppies.  At a guess, she’d command the lion’s share to feed her unborn.

Somehow, that didn’t make things any better.

He pulled the flint stealthily out of his pocket.  He’d been saving it for emergencies.  Even as a boy he’d been a good shot with stones, had a keen eye that he’d brought to weapons training.  This close, he could certainly hit her, unless she saw the missile in time to dodge it.  Quite possibly, if he hit her where he meant to hit her, he could even kill her.  The impromptu snack the previous night hadn’t diminished the pack’s interest in their intended main course, but maybe the loss of the dominant bitch might give them second thoughts.

He loved dogs – he always had loved them – but when it came to his life against a wolf’s, there was no hesitation.  He eased himself out of his refuge a little, to allow him to move his arm freely, and then raised the stone slowly, calculating trajectory and velocity.

Their heads went up.  There was a chorus of snarls, and as one they bounded away.  Not out of range – he could throw a good way, even in these circumstances – but certainly far enough for him to have a hugely diminished chance of inflicting any real damage.

_Damnation!_ Somehow they understood about missiles.  He lowered the stone and scrambled back into shelter.  The movement had shown him how badly he’d stiffened up, and the wound in his thigh woke to fresh pain, sickening him all over again.  It had crusted over, but now broke open again so that fresh blood started to seep into the cold air.

Damp muzzles sniffed the breeze, which was carrying that enticing smell straight at them.

There followed a period which quite frankly he was surprised afterwards he’d survived.  He hadn’t been able to ward all of them off, though.  Their teamwork had been better this time.  They were intelligent; they _learned._ His legs and arms had taken the brunt, because he was curled up to protect his vulnerable belly, but at least he hadn’t let go of the knife. 

He watched the pack retreat again, and let out a breath that was almost a sob.  He hadn’t been able to feel the pain while he was fighting for his life, but he felt it now.  And some of the bites had been deep.  He was losing blood, he had no food or water, and he had nowhere to run.  They knew it as well as he did.

Short of a miracle, the next attack would finish him.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite pain and thirst and fear, the human brain can only fight sleep for so long.

For all his good intentions, for all his anguished knowledge of what would happen if he failed, he found his struggle to stay awake becoming ever more desperate; late in the afternoon, when the advancing shadows were darkening in the woods below, he finally lost the battle.

_Just for a second,_ his exhausted mind pleaded; _just for a second... just a little rest... of course you can’t go to sleep, of course you can’t... but just for a second..._

He’d been resisting it for hours.  At last, however, and without his quite knowing anything about it, his eyelids drooped closed.

And stayed closed.

* * *

The pack were watching him intently by this time.  Barely a short leap separated them from him now.  One or two of the youngest stirred, gathering their haunches under them, but the leader’s flattened ears warned them back into stillness and silence.

The shadows advanced a little further.  Still the dark crescents lay motionless on the prey’s face.  His hand lay unmoving, but the knife was still within the grip of the loosened fingers.

A shadow arose, silent as any of the shadows among the trees.  Hackles shifted all around her; blue eyes burned with eagerness.  Her mate half-rose, but waited.

Her paws carried her weight soundlessly.  She placed each foot with immense care, not allowing the claws to scrape even a fraction on the stone as she moved.  Not so much as the click of a displaced pebble carried to the pricked, listening ears behind her.

She was almost within touching distance.  Still there was no movement.  The prey’s breathing was soft, slow, even.

Her body posture changed.  Her hindquarters dipped.  The sharp, pungent scent of urine flooded the air. _Mine!_

The hoarse bellow of rage splintered the silence, shocking even the mountains around them.  Several of the younger ones took flight, hurtling away down the slope with yelps of terror; even the pack leader jumped back, snarling with fright.  In the very mouth of the crevice a desperate struggle was going on.  The prey had waited till the very last second, and then it had attacked.  Two bodies were locked together, and the long rays of the sunlight splintered on a bared knife as it rose and fell.  Then there was the rapid, savage crunch of teeth closing and a long scream of pain. 

The thud of a boot against ribs ended the encounter.  The bitch scrambled backwards, the smell of her blood and her victim’s metallic on the air, and somehow the prey was squirming back into shelter again.  Its movements were clumsy; it was desperately hurt.  But it was alive, and it still had the knife.

It seemed that the waiting game would go on just a little longer.

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Fucking hell, that was  _close_.. _!_ "

The sound of his own voice whimpering the words startled him briefly into thinking there was someone else in the cave with him, and his drubbing heart leaped with joy and relief. The realisation that followed was horrible. His utter isolation closed in on him like a vice, as awful as the inescapable knowledge that he really wasn't going to survive the next attack. This time, he'd been lucky.

If 'lucky' was the word.

He looked down at his right wrist. The jaws had closed on it, crushing bone and muscle. The hand was still attached, a mess of blood, but it was useless to him now.

The knife lay on the floor. Mechanically he picked it up with his left hand. Even that shook.

He looked out at the pack. They'd surrounded the hurt bitch, but they weren't attacking her. On the contrary, they seemed to be trying to comfort her, licking her wounds and nuzzling her mouth. He'd done his best, but the thick fur had hidden huge bones in the shoulder. The blow he'd been counting on to kill had just glanced along one of them, achieving virtually nothing but a flesh wound.

Fuck it.

Best to get it over and done with. At least he'd die fighting, and out in the open, rather than trapped in that bloody crevice like a cornered rat.

It hurt so badly to struggle out of his refuge again that his senses swam, but the thought of an end to his fear and pain drove him onward. Directly in front of him, the rock was spattered with drops of his blood and hers, and the low level rays of evening sunshine gleamed on a pool of urine. She'd marked her property, and he was in it.

Somewhere in the recesses of his dizzy brain, an idea stirred.

Maybe he was crazy even thinking it, but...

He let himself topple over, and rolled, deliberately.

As the furry heads lifted, he let himself come to a halt. His left arm extended.

The knife clattered on to the stone, and slid a little distance away. He let it lie. It wasn't as though it was going to save him anyway; and why should they suffer for being hungry?

There was movement. They advanced on him slowly, quivering with suspicion and eagerness.

With agonising slowness he forced himself to uncurl. Every instinct in him screamed as he coerced his arms and legs into exposing his unprotected abdomen, leaving it wide open to attack. The pain of the bites he'd already received told him how terrible the agony of the end was going to be, but this last desperate gamble was the only throw of the dice he had left.

His hands and feet touched rock. Somehow he kept them there, shaking with fear, as he watched the wolves creep closer. Their jaws were open and ready, and they must be able to smell the blood and the terror. They knew now what a knife represented, and they could see it lying out of his reach.

He wanted to believe in a God, but he didn't. He hadn't anyone to pray to, anyone who might be watching. Maybe it might have been a comfort to think that hell was going to be this side of the darkness instead of the other side, but it was impossible to think of any concept so abstract when concepts so very material were advancing on him, so close now that he could smell the slightly musky odour of their fur.

 _Reeds don't beg._ Maybe if there had been a God he would have done, and maybe even if these beasts had been sentient the temptation would have been too much. As it was, he had to settle for choking back the moan of fear as the pack-leader's great head dipped towards his clenched and flinching belly.

He felt the whiskers brush his skin. A drip of hot saliva made his skin twitch like that of a horse feeling a fly land; the smeared, pungent urine made his skin so sensitive that he could feel the by-brush of the breath.

The growl was so deep and low that he felt rather than heard it, rumbling through his bones. He concentrated on controlling his breathing, trying to keep it slow and steady – a difficult feat when his threatened heart was pounding frantically at the base of his equally threatened throat. Every nerve in his body was shrilling at him to  _act_ , to do  _anything_ , but all he could do was lie still, in this posture of absolute submission, and wait.

The moments stretched out. The other wolves came up and began smelling him, their hackles up. One of them nosed at his face, giving him an excellent view of the bared fangs. A sudden scrape across the inside of his thigh almost made him jerk up in reflex, sure that the attack had started, but a glance downward showed him that one of the animals had simply stepped across him and been impeded by the press of its companions.

The dominant male fell silent. Abruptly it turned away, pushing through the pack, which gave back respectfully.

The rest of the wolves seemed uncertain what to do. Some of them followed their leader, while others hovered over Malcolm, sniffing him. He winced as some of the smaller ones began licking his bleeding wounds, but tried not to pull away; any sudden movement could still bring the whole pack down on him.

Slowly they began to eddy away from him. He still didn't dare move. He didn't know what they'd do if he did.

Suddenly, however, another heavy body pushed through the thinning ranks. The black fur was glossy with new blood. Her eyes were like azure coins, their pupils pinpoints of unfathomable darkness as they stared down at him.

Half a dozen excuses flashed through his mind, each more fatuous than the last – it wasn't as if she could speak English! In the last resort, it had been his life or hers, and it had been little more than luck that neither of them had died in that short, savage little tussle. His wrist throbbed; it was already swelling.

He licked his lips. They were perfectly dry. His tongue wasn't much better.

After a last stare she turned away and padded after her mate.

The rest followed them.

Hardly daring to breathe, he turned his head just slightly to watch them go. It was impossible that it was happening. It had to be some cruel trick. At any moment they would lunge around and charge back to attack him. Smell or no smell, posture or no posture, he was  _food._

They were perhaps a dozen metres from him when the black female stopped and looked back. It was a long look, and maybe he was reading a whole lot into it that wasn't – couldn't be – there. With all those pups on the way, she'd want all the meat there was to be had in this hostile environment. Surely she was reconsidering, remembering the taste of his blood in her mouth. Surely in another second she'd spin in her tracks and come back to take the nourishment she'd need so badly when her pups were born.

She uttered a low sound, midway between a growl and a yip. The big male beside her raised his head and looked back too, a chill glance of indifference.

His heart in his mouth, Malcolm slowly rolled over and retrieved the knife, which he slid into the sheath at his belt. The wolves watched him.

For whatever reason, they appeared to be waiting for him. The only reason he could find for this was that it would save them the trouble of dragging him back to the den, or wherever they were going; better by far if he walked there on his own two legs, and then they could finish him off at their convenience.

It wasn't a reassuring thought, but maybe if he co-operated some opportunity of escape might present itself in the meantime. If he stayed here – assuming he could even get back to the cranny before they caught him – then the waiting game would start again. He had no illusions; this time it would have a very different ending.

Cradling his right arm, he started to get to his feet. As he rose from a crouch, the male laid his ears back and snarled, hackles rising. The rest of the pack growled in faithful echo.

"OK, I get the picture." He lowered himself again quickly, and the growls died away.

The pack set off down the slope. He followed them, keeping his spine bent and head low so that he was all but shambling. The gait soon became first uncomfortable and then acutely stressful, as all the muscles in his back began to protest, but as soon as he made any attempt to straighten up and relieve the pressure one of the pack would spot him. Several times he knew he'd reacted too slowly to discovery and been close to being attacked. As long as he maintained a posture that they could clearly interpret as being subservient they'd put up with him. Any failure to do so evidently represented a challenge to the pack leader's authority – a challenge the brute was willing to meet with violence.

They regained the shelter of the woods, and soon the soft babble of the stream made itself heard. Malcolm looked towards it longingly, wondering if he dared slip away, but the blue eyes were full of intelligence and threat. The alpha male – he found himself using the adjective as a name, for want of anything better – led the way in the opposite direction, and he had no choice but to follow.


	6. Chapter 6

He was still exhausted and weak.  He walked because he had no choice, but the forest swayed and dipped around him, and the pain of his crushed wrist went up his arm in one hot pulse after another, in time with his heartbeat.

The world went away from him for a while, becoming something glassy and moving that made little sense, but presently he almost stumbled over a stationary, crouching wolf.  The snarl was a reflex, and the bite slid down his side and was no more than a warning.  He blinked, and realised that the pack had stopped and were drinking from a pool.  The water was clear, fed by a stream that slid into it silently between mossy, fern-fringed banks.

_Water._ He mouthed the word, his mouth too dry to utter it.  Surely they wouldn’t refuse to let him drink?

Dropping to his knees, and from thence to all fours – though still holding his right arm cradled against him, because he didn’t dare let it even touch the ground – he crept slowly and fearfully in among the huge bodies.  Even crouched, they were now taller than he was.  Ears flattened at the touch of his shoulders against theirs, but the wolves shifted grudgingly to let him through.

_Water...!_

Supporting himself only with his by-now burning back muscles, he stopped at the water’s edge and dipped his left hand into the water to cup some up: firstly and most importantly to quench his thirst, and secondly to lave his broken wrist and clean the wounds in it.

A torrent of snarling broke out, unmistakably aimed at him.  Alpha was directly opposite him, and the big animal’s face was a mask of fury. 

He froze, his hand within centimetres of the precious fluid.  Slowly he withdrew it, and the snarls diminished.

He put his hand back on to the grass and relieved some of the pressure on his spine, but the sparkle of the last of the sunlight on the water was torment.  They weren’t going to let him drink.  They were going to make him suffer.

The black one was beside her mate.  She lapped peaceably, her gaze on him steady, as Alpha subsided and also began to drink.

Malcolm’s paternal grandmother had Irish relations.  A somewhat lengthy visit to some of these when he was very young had left him with a smattering of Gaelic, and a name came to him now – one that had stuck in his memory because one of his cousins had applied it to him.   _Dorcha_ , meaning ‘Dark’.

Water... he had to have some water.  Even just enough to wet his mouth.  He didn’t know when he might get another chance.

The blue eyes watched him as he allowed his locked left arm to bend.  The pain as he found some way to tolerate his right arm resting on the grass almost made him whimper, but he locked his teeth and persevered.  He was beginning to get the shreds of a picture; it didn’t make sense, but it was the only one that seemed to account for their behaviour.

There was no reaction as he lowered his head cautiously to the water.  It came naturally to him to put his mouth into it and suck up great gulps, but that was poorly received at once.  He’d thought it might be, and the reaction was further confirmation of his new theory.  He pulled his face clear of the water and began lapping instead.  Because his tongue was not designed to lap efficiently it was very bad at getting much into his mouth, but by dint of cautious experimentation he worked out that as long as he was seen to be lapping for most of the time he could get away with dipping for the occasional quick suck.  Not that he thought that the wolves were fooled by this technique, but honour seemed to be satisfied by his overall conformance to the rules.

When his thirst was quenched at last, he carefully and warily dipped his injured hand into the water – an action that was tolerated, raising his assessment of their intelligence several notches.  The wonderful coolness seemed to help the pain, and hopefully it might help to wash away at least some of the germs that would undoubtedly be preparing to party in the wounds.  Now that his wrist was clean of blood, he was able to see that the teeth-marks in it were relatively neat; it was the inward force of the bite that had done the real damage.  He tried not to notice how bruised it was, and how much worse the swelling had become. 

When he looked up again, the pack was once more on the move.  Getting up again and resuming his crouching posture was exhausting, but the alternative was to refuse – and he had a shrewd idea what would follow if he did.

The water had definitely helped.  For a time the world didn’t dip and sway so much as he shambled after the steadily padding animals, but presently it wasn’t just the gathering evening that was darkening his vision.  He kept moving because that was what he had to do, but he tripped a lot and each time regaining his footing was harder.

Finally he found himself stumbling into somewhere dark.  There seemed to be lots of bodies settling down on the floor, so he let himself pitch forward among them, remembering only to shield his right arm from hitting anything as he landed.  He was too tired to think who or what he might land on; he wanted only to stop moving, and sleep.

And finally, blessedly, there was oblivion.


	7. Chapter 7

There followed a long, too-hot period of alternating sleep and half-wakefulness, shot through with the ever-present throb of pain from his wrist. At least the latter mostly drowned out the pain from his lesser injuries, though an incautious movement still sent a vicious pang shooting up his thigh to remind him that one set of teeth had gone into the muscle there; and certainly for a time he made many incautious movements that never seemed to be quite within his control, earning himself irritated nips that taught him to be quieter, at least for a while.

He dreamed, too. Odd dreams, even more senseless than usual but startlingly vivid.  Sometimes he dreamed of a dour, lined face that he’d rarely glimpsed since the visit in the hospital, though he knew that the mind behind it had remained aware of him.  Other faces came and went, swooped close from the darkness and mouthed words at him that he couldn’t understand, though the nagging idea persisted that he should be able to.  At one point he turned over and put his arms around Deborah with sleepy desire, burrowing his head into the angle of her neck; but when he raised his head again to kiss her, it wasn’t Deborah but Arabella, and even as she said _‘I always get what I want, Malcolm’_ her face mutated and elongated, turning into the long growling muzzle of a wolf.

He screamed that time, but the sound was feeble and the echoes told him it had bounced off what sounded like a low roof. This made no sense to him, but he was thirsty, so thirsty he could think of nothing else. 

From time to time fruit had materialised in his dark world, alerting him by their smell, which soon came to represent survival as he devoured each luscious juicy globe to the stone; but for a while now no fruit had come, and his fever-ridden body had once more become dangerously dehydrated.

For some time now he had been aware of other noises in the darkness beside him: very small noises that aroused in him dim feelings of both anxiety and protectiveness. Within the last day or two he had also begun to notice that very small creatures with furry muzzles occasionally licked his face, and as this was invariably accompanied by thunderous growls of warning out of the gloom he took care to lie absolutely still until they blundered away again.

The mists of confusion thinned enough to let through the word _pups_.  It didn’t mean much to him except an increase in anxiety; for some reason, instinct told him that he was in an extremely dangerous place.  But associated – inextricably associated – with the word _pups_ was one that in his present plight held even more significance for him.

_Milk._

His limbs didn’t obey him as thoughtlessly as they should have done, but they managed to shuffle him around very slowly. A smear of light from somewhere brought his surroundings a point away from complete darkness, but he’d had days in which to become accustomed – however vaguely – to them.  He was in a cave, almost a scoop beneath a rocky overhang, perhaps three metres deep and a little more than one high.  The entrance was hidden from them by what looked like an old rockfall, around one side of which the cave’s inhabitants could come and go.

The pool of absolute blackness a metre away from him opened two blue moons. The familiar warning growl echoed through the cave.

Dorcha was lying on her side. The pups were lying in a row, busily nursing.

Moving with as much care as he could manage, he crept very gradually closer. Finally he was within touching distance, and lay still.  The bitch watched him for a while and then put her head down again.

Five puppies ... one a runt.  Even in the gloom, he could see that much. 

_Only the strong survive._

In another life he’d have agonised over it; after all, he’d been ‘the runt’ since before he was old enough to know what the word meant. Even now, in the midst of his sickness and confusion, he knew a moment’s hate for what he had to do.  But his hands acted for him, and seconds later there was a surplus milk supply.

He put the little body gently to one side, muttering an absurd word of apology.

He crept forward again, keeping himself as small as possible. None of the remaining pups took any notice as he pushed in among them; his smell was familiar.

His upbringing rose up in a single keening sob of revolt, which he stifled savagely.

_Survive!_

Dorcha lifted her head again briefly, but the minor disturbance among the pups at her flank had subsided.

Everything was quiet.

She put down her head again and went back into a doze.


	8. Chapter 8

The days passed. He had no idea how many, but one morning he woke with his head clear, and a body that felt as weak as a kitten’s.

He could remember everything that had happened. The memory made him a little sick, but there was nothing to be done to amend any of it.  All he could do was eke out the rest of his stay here, if that was possible.

Why he had been ‘adopted’ by a pack of wolves, he had no idea. How he was still alive, he had even less.  In theory they should not have understood how to care for him, even if they were interested in doing so.

That they were far more intelligent than an Earth wolf, he had no doubt at all. That didn’t answer any of his questions.  Nor did it seem likely that he would get any answers to them, because however intelligent they might be he had no way of communicating with them.

In the meantime, the puppies had accepted him as one of them. He made a useful object for climbing on, for one thing.  He was also more tolerant than their mother, who was inclined to retaliate sharply if their playful nips were painful.  Dorcha, in her turn, had evidently decided he posed no threat to her remaining young.  She no longer watched their interactions or bothered to growl warnings.  There was no sign of the dead pup; presumably it had been eaten.  In the world these animals inhabited, nothing was wasted.  Certainly not sentimentality.  A lesson he would do well to emulate, for he already suspected that Section 31 espoused to an extreme degree the view that ‘the end justifies the means’.  That had already been proven on his own hide, because there was no way that the shuttle crew hadn’t known he would be in immediate and mortal danger when they put him down.

It would be interesting to see if they sent the same two individuals to pick him up. Interesting and eventful, for he had a good memory for faces and those two had racked up something of a score – which sooner or later he would settle, preferably with a little over on account.  Though on second thoughts, it was unlikely; anyone who’d survived here for three months was likely to be someone rather different from the individual who’d been set down, and was moreover likely to be harbouring certain resentments.  It would be unnecessarily wasteful to send the very people who’d been responsible for putting them into that situation, as well as being patently unfair – after all, they’d only been following orders.  Not that those orders had seemed to worry them, however.  He could still remember the broad grins with which they’d wished him luck.

A low rumble echoed around the cave, and he looked up, startled and apprehensive. Dorcha was staring back at him, looking equally startled, and he realised suddenly that it had been he himself who had growled, not her. 

* * *

 

As his strength returned, so did his need for food – more than milk could possibly provide, even if the supply had been available. He contemplated eliminating the rest of the competition, but suspected that all four strong, healthy pups mysteriously ceasing to breathe would be too much of a coincidence.  He’d already come to acknowledge the wolves’ highly developed powers of reasoning, and had no wish to put it to a test that could have such fatal consequences for himself. 

In any case, now he had returned to normality he disliked being dependent, being reduced to the status of the fifth cub in the litter. To resent the source of the nourishment that had saved his life would be thankless, but he certainly thought it was past time he was weaned.

The amber light of afternoon dazzled his eyes as he blinked cautiously out of the mouth of the den. He had no idea how long he’d been underground, how many days had passed since he’d been deposited here and left to be wolf-meat.  There was a tang in the air that suggested autumn, but he wasn’t on Earth and could attach no certainty to any similarities to the seasons of home.

The overhang overlooked the bed of a stream. The water level was low.  What there was slid silently among the stones at the bottom.

His right wrist still would not bear any of his weight. He was therefore on ‘all threes’, and it seemed diplomatic to stay that way as he made his way slowly down to the water.  A rapid survey had shown him that although most of the pack were absent, at least three were still present.  It appeared that he was under surveillance.

It would have been unwise to unlearn one of his earliest lessons. When he was finally at the edge of the stream he bent his supporting arm, dipped his head and lapped, once again slipping in a surreptitious suck now and then.  Strangely, it no longer seemed so foreign to him, and his facial muscles adapted with surprising ease to the technique of snatching each gulp of water and swallowing it almost in the same movement.

When his thirst was quenched he sat back on his haunches and examined his damaged wrist. The wounds had started to heal and were clean, but he could tell from the swelling and tenderness that something was badly wrong with the bones inside.  His hand was still healthy so the blood supply had not been compromised – he could be thankful for that at least, given the vulnerable blood vessels so close to the surface there, but there was still a worrying quantity of bruising.  It was fortunate for him that Dorcha’s jaws had closed on the narrow plane of his wrist rather than the broad; her teeth had missed the veins, crushing in on the bones instead. He hadn’t nearly enough knowledge of the composition of the wrist to attempt to reposition them, even if he could have summoned up enough fortitude to both perform and endure it without any form of anaesthesia.

He licked the swollen flesh gently. Although he knew it would achieve nothing, the sensation brought a vague comfort in its wake, so that he found himself doing it again, and continued to do so for some minutes.  Had there been anyone present to remark on the fact that it was an unusual thing to do, he would have been genuinely surprised; it felt natural. 

When he’d finished, he took a look around the area in which he found himself. He’d been too close to collapse to take in much of it when he’d arrived, and his fever since had ensured he had no strength to venture out even if he’d thought of it.  Now he had both, however – not much on the strength front, admittedly, but he’d improve, he told himself resolutely – it was time to start planning how he was going to make his escape.

It wasn’t going to be easy. He’d already begun to suspect that he was under surveillance, and a glance around confirmed the theory.  One of the three animals present was asleep, lying in a pool of sunshine on top of the rocky banks; one of the others was openly watching him, and though the third was supposed to be asleep too, nose tucked into tail, the small clatter of a rock he deliberately dislodged brought the glint of watching eyes in the tawny fur.

Weighing up his chances, it was difficult to remain optimistic. He was outnumbered and he had nowhere to run. The chances of him being able to sneak away undetected were almost as remote as those of his staying clear long enough to lose the pursuit that he was quite certain would follow.  And if they ran him down, as they almost certainly would, what would happen then? 

The chief problem was that he had no idea of their motives for keeping him captive; without that, he had no way to postulate how determined they would be to recapture him, or what punishment they might hand out for his escape attempt. That they had put some effort into keeping him alive, there was no doubt. But _why_ had they done so? There was nothing he could provide them with, unless he basically comprised emergency rations – something, so to speak, that they’d ‘put away for a rainy day’.  If winter was coming, hunting would undoubtedly become very lean.  The time might come when they would be glad of having something in reserve….

The thought chilled him. It made it even more imperative that he should get away, but his chances of achieving this at present were too slender for him even to think of it.  And even if – _when_ , he corrected himself – he succeeded, how would he survive?  Certainly he had the skills to do so if he’d been left to himself; even on a strange planet and without the use of his right hand, he thought his chances were reasonable.  How that might stand up while he had to avoid the notice of a native predator whose intelligence had already proven to be extremely high was far more dubious.  Losing himself was one thing, and even that would be difficult. _Staying_ lost was another.  And he had to stay lost for a very long time: three months, minus however many days had passed while he was in the grip of fever.  He didn’t know how far their hunting range extended.  At a guess, in order to keep a pack of this size alive, it would be a great distance.  Ideally he’d need to get clear of it completely.

He was lost in these dark ruminations when movement among the trees alerted him to the return of the rest of the pack.


	9. Chapter 9

Alpha was one of the first to approach him. 

The hostile stare suggested that the pack leader wasn’t best pleased to see him out and about, and as the animal drew nearer the thick hedge of hackles lifted.

Resistance would be futile, not to mention potentially fatal. Hoping desperately that the action would again serve to defuse the wolf’s animosity, Malcolm buckled to the ground, pushed himself over on to his side and raised his hurt arm as though preparing to roll on to his back.

Alpha stood over him, smelling him carefully. Malcolm was careful not to make eye contact – that too could be interpreted as a failure in submission.  He kept the side of his face crushed to the stones on which he lay, and looked at the great hairy paws with their unretractable claws.  There was mud between the pads.

It appeared that his submission had been accepted.  After a couple of moments the wolf gave a faint growl and turned away, and the other members of the pack who’d waited to see what the verdict would be relaxed. 

The expedition seemed to have been a hunt, and to judge by the newly languid movements of the animals as they disposed themselves around the rocky hollow it had been a successful one. They were sated, and their obvious contentment served to cast into high relief his own growing hunger.  He would _have_ to find some way to feed himself. 

In his current condition it was obvious that he wasn’t going to be able to catch anything that could move with any rapidity. Until he could find some natural substitute for wire, he couldn’t even set snares – if, of course, he could contrive to make one unseen, since the process would mean using his hands.  There might be fish in the stream, but at this depth he’d be lucky to find anything bigger than sticklebacks.  Still, even sticklebacks would be a source of protein if he could catch enough of them.  Whatever he managed to catch should ideally be cooked, but the prospect of starting a fire under the suspicious gaze of the pack was fraught with unpleasant possibilities.  Well, then – he swallowed as the realisation came to him – he’d have to learn to eat his protein sources raw.  Doubtless that was a lesson that hunger would teach him.

Two of the junior-ranking wolves had been carrying small furry creatures between their jaws when they returned. Alpha had taken one of these and gone into the den, doubtless to feed Dorcha.  Moments later he re-emerged, took the other one and brought it over to the stream-bed, where he dropped it beside the prisoner.

It looked like some kind of guinea pig, with small ears and a short, stubby tail. It reminded him of the hyraxes he’d glimpsed when he’d climbed Kilimanjaro. And it wasn’t dead.

It was badly hurt – at least two of its legs were broken, by the way it was struggling to crawl. But it could still move, and it could still make a lot of noise.

Malcolm looked down at it and reached for his knife.

Alpha snarled.

No knife allowed, then.

He looked around for a large stone. There were plenty to choose from; he only needed to select one that would fit into his left hand and was easy enough to heft while being heavy enough to do the job quickly.  If nothing else, he wanted the poor little sod put out of its suffering.

The snarl came again, and he dropped the stone and stared into the cold blue eyes.

“Fuck off.”

Alpha picked up the hyrax, bit it almost in half and carried it into the den.

Malcolm was left with his humanity and his hunger. 

One was still more important to him than the other.

For now.


	10. Chapter 10

His suspicion that he was under surveillance had been absolutely correct.

If anything, it had been an understatement.  He was literally a prisoner.  He was not allowed to leave the confines of the den area for any reason.  The furthest he could go was the areas that the pack used as demarcation of their home territory, where he evacuated like they did – except that as the days crept by, he no longer had any need to pass anything. 

There was fruit on the trees – he could see it.  With eyesight and smell sharpened by hunger that gnawed him ever more savagely, he knew exactly where the golden globes hung.  Some of the trees were so constructed that even with one arm he could have scrambled up into the lower boughs and feasted.  But he was not allowed to climb.  Now and again he spotted windfalls, but one of his ever-present guards always got there first.  When he was in the grip of fever, these must have been what they’d kept him alive with.  Now they were all he could find, and he was not allowed to eat even one.  Over and over again he could do nothing but watch as a wolf pounced on the fallen fruit and gulped it down, and lick his own mouth in yearning at the smell of the rich juice whose taste he could remember like the memory of a distant summer.

In the midst of plenty, he was starving to death.

Even milk was forbidden him now.  Dorcha warned him away with bared teeth that weren’t a joke, and the pups nipped at him viciously, taking their cue from their mother.

The pack went away to hunt again a couple of days later.  They returned full.  Food was brought for Dorcha, but not for him.

He was allowed to forage among the undergrowth, and ate caterpillars and insects that came nowhere near filling him.  There were, indeed, tiny fish among the pools, but he had small success in catching them with his teeth – especially as the act of putting his face into water filled him with unreasoning panic.

He no longer slept soundly, because hunger woke him, but his periods of drowsiness grew longer and longer as he grew weaker.  He drank a great deal.  Water was the only thing he could fill his stomach with, and went some way towards assuaging the constant grinding ache of emptiness.

A bitter conflict raged in him as he watched the pack return.  He hoped they might tempt him with food, but feared his inability to resist if he was presented with the same stark choice.  When food was brought for Dorcha but not for him, the mingled relief and disappointment made him almost nauseous; he went slowly down to the stream and drank as much water as he could hold, trying to fight down the panic fear that his captors might not relent before he died of starvation.

It was too much effort to return to the den.  Besides, the sun could reach him here on this flat rock, and lately cold had been his almost constant companion.  Lacking fuel to generate its own warmth, his body was burning its own reserves, and he’d never carried any surplus fat that could have helped him now.  He lay down, too tired by even this small effort to care that the pressure points on his bones were starting to become rubbed raw.  Bitter experience had taught him that weariness would overcome the discomfort eventually, and then he would sleep and forget his hunger.

As the familiar lassitude crept over him, it was accompanied by a wave of desolation so great that hot tears stung his eyes.  He’d been left here to die, and maybe it would have been better after all if he’d died back on the mountainside.  At least he wouldn’t have died a damned coward.

The thought of what his father would say if he could see him now was like a knife twisting inside him; a couple of tears escaped, and he raised his hand to hurriedly paw away the shame.  It was his right hand, and automatically he licked the damaged wrist as he always did.  It wasn’t as though anyone was here to see, or care, he thought, swallowing a lump in his throat.  He’d finally got to the place where no-one, really and truly  _no-one_ , gave a single rotten damn whether he lived or died.

Well, he knew he hadn’t got long left now.  Maybe today would be the day he went to sleep and just didn’t wake up again.  If waking would lead only to more suffering, there was no point in going on.  He’d failed at this, just as his father would have predicted, and all there was left was for fate to put him out of his misery one way or another.

As he drifted into dream-riddled semi-consciousness, his last coherent thought was that it would have been nice to have done just one thing his father could be proud of.

* * *

He emerged from a long doze some hours later to find that there was a windfall fruit lying on the rock in front of him.

There was a wolf standing over it.  Not Alpha – the big male was lying in the mouth of the den, watching with dispassionate blue eyes.  This one was one of the much older members of the pack. 

Early afternoon sunshine fell on the skin of the fruit, bringing the soft colour clearly into view.  There was hardly a mark on it.  Its flesh would be meltingly sweet; not sharp like pineapple, more like that of a peach, but full of nourishment.

Saliva flooded into his mouth at the thought of it.

Growling, the wolf dipped his head to eat the fruit.  And at that moment, Alpha gave a short, sharp bark.

Two things happened almost simultaneously.  The older wolf’s head snapped around, and all the remaining strength in Malcolm’s body coalesced into one violent movement that was utterly beyond his conscious control.

Suddenly his jaws were full of fur and his ears were full of a panic-stricken screaming that had no meaning for him.  He knew only that he had to keep on the pressure, grinding steadily inwards, with his good arm hooked over the bucking shoulders to keep the furry chest pressed against him so that the teeth and claws couldn’t reach him; and his efforts were rewarded when slowly the screaming choked into silence.  Grimly he held on, while events beyond his comprehension gradually became weaker and quieter, and at last ceased altogether.

Alpha had not moved.  Nor had any of the other wolves.

Slowly Malcolm raised his head.

The peach had got knocked aside during the struggle, but it was still lying there on the stone, warm in the sun.

He crawled over to it.

It was just as delicious as he had remembered.  He ate all of it, even the stone.  Then he made his way out to where the tree grew.  There were another two windfalls lying on the grass, and he ate those too.  He rose upright on his knees, and bit down another that was within easy reach.

When he returned to the den some of the other wolves had been busy with their dead comrade.  They had neatly opened the skin down the belly and begun the task of pulling it clear from the flesh beneath.  The daily temperatures were dropping, and how he was to keep warm if it became really cold had been a question that had nagged him only less desperately than how he was to find food.  Now, at a blow, both problems were solved – at least temporarily.

He glanced at Alpha.  The big animal stared back at him expressionlessly.

He didn’t think of his knife.  He didn’t think of fire.  He was too hungry.

He fell to.  When his belly was full he slept, and when he woke he ate again.  From time to time he licked the swelling on his right paw.

The deconstruction of Malcolm Reed was accomplished.


	11. Chapter 11

Wolves do not measure time.

Now that he was no longer resisting, he became one of them quickly.  After a while they gradually accepted him walking upright, though he developed a technique of dropping one shoulder whenever Alpha passed him or came close, signifying submission.  Every now and then this would have to be reinforced by dropping into the full posture, down on his back, but the intervals between the occasions when this was demanded became longer and longer.

Mentally he shut down.  He no longer thought of Starfleet or the Section; he no longer thought of home.  He did not think of himself as human any longer.  When he caught sight of his reflection in a pool he growled and backed away.

Dorcha’s pups consoled him a little.  From the day when they first emerged from the den he became their surrogate guardian, freeing Dorcha to go hunting and replenish the weight she had lost since the birth.  Unlike the other wolves, who tolerated them because to do otherwise was to court retribution from the watchful parents, he actively courted their company.  Maybe it was because their acceptance of him was absolute, and salved a loneliness he was scarcely aware of feeling.

He was allowed to join the hunt sometimes, though at first his lack of stealth earned him vexed nips when a careless footfall alerted the prey too early.  He grew leaner and fitter, and forgot that there had ever been a time when he was not one of the pack.  He no longer cared about killing.  Maybe he had nothing like the ferocious fangs the wolves possessed, but his superior height gave him an advantage as a scout, and he had a calculating brain that made him dangerous in other ways; it was this that stirred one day when the pack got a distant glimpse of a herd of huge, formidable beasts he had not seen before.  Alpha glanced and turned away, but Malcolm stood staring hard, and the fingers on his left paw twitched towards the knife at his belt.  He rarely remembered these days that he had either, but something in his brain said _weapon_ and _trap?_

These were not-pack things, however, so he only snarled silently and turned away.

The nights grew longer and colder.  Hunting grew harder.  Most of the pack went hungry on some days, but there was enough to live on, and the pups thrived and grew.  Soon they were rambunctious, and the play-fighting of their early days took on an edge. 

* * *

Then, one night, there were different cries on the night wind.  Alpha stiffened, but his posture did not signal attack.

Late the next morning there was movement among the trees.  The pack had been waiting, and even Malcolm had been able to detect the unusual nature of the tension in the air.  He had been lying on his side, sheltering the dozing pups in the angle of his body, but as soon as the sentries yipped the alert he drove them into the den.  Dorcha followed them.  He crouched in the entrance, rigid and waiting.

The strange pack walked warily, but their tails and ears gave no indication of hostile intentions.  The two packs mingled, smelling one another.

He watched distrustfully.

A different movement caught his eye.

Hesitating among the trees was another creature.  It walked on two legs.  He did not recognise it, though something about it tugged at his memory.

Friendly - or at least neutral - relations seeming to have been established in front of the den, he slipped away from the entrance and began stalking the strange animal.  The other pack had not attacked it so presumably it was not good to eat, but it might pose a threat to the pups.

He managed to get very close before it realised he was there.  Its head jerked around, and it made an odd noise almost like a mew.  Its eyes were not blue, but green.  It did not have a tail, or indeed any body fur, but it had hair on its head – long, blonde, matted hair that was tangled in the wolf pelt it was partly wrapped in.  Beneath the pelt were the remnants of some kind of not-skin much like he was wearing, and like his it was filthy, rank and in places badly torn.

At least the creature behaved properly.  It rolled onto its back, showing the appropriate submission.

Snarling a warning, he advanced on it stiff-legged.  He might only have one functioning forepaw, but he was fully able to protect his pack’s pups.

With a movement that was smooth from long practice, he dropped to both knees and his left hand.  His right hand had never recovered functionality, and although the wounds had long since healed and he only licked it these days out of habit, he held it tucked into his body to prevent it from taking further damage.

The new creature smelled …

…different…

…familiar…

…interesting…

He nipped a half-exposed shoulder, eliciting a scared squeal.

For some reason this was intensely exciting.  He pawed at the soft hairless flesh, growling.

He no longer thought she was a threat.  His body was reacting to messages his brain had not yet caught up with, but he had no way to convey his confused responses.  Buried memories were stirring, and remembering was agony.  He wanted to kill her, because she was making him nervous, but there were other things he wanted to do to her because of her smell.

Her posture was wrong.  It made him angry, frustrated. In one way it was right and another it was wrong. Dorcha had come on heat recently and she had behaved accordingly; he had been unaffected, though he had perceived that the other male wolves had been fractious and Alpha had had a couple of fights to maintain his dominance.  This no-tail did not seem to understand what to do.

He glanced around, aggressive and anxious.  If the other wolves caught that scent he too would have a fight on his paws.  He was only surprised that no-one was already challenging him.

Alpha barked sharply.

Obedience had been drilled into him.  He nipped the no-tail up to her paws.  The joint pack was on the move, and he must not be left behind.  But he was not leaving her behind either.  She was too fascinating to ignore, and he might discover more about her as they travelled.  Most importantly of all, she might come on heat too.  Her smell certainly suggested that she might.

This whole occasion was new and disconcerting.

Perhaps things might become clearer soon.


	12. Chapter 12

"There they are."

The pilot changed course to bring the shuttlepod low over the mountain.

Behind her, two men steadied themselves against their chairs as they made final preparations for the end of the mission.

The mother-ship's scanners had indicated that this year's result was a good one. Two planted, two survived. Most years at least one died.

Their end of the bargain had to be adjusted accordingly.

The onboard scanners were programmed to select the appropriate member of the herd that soon appeared below them: huge armored creatures, intelligent enough to co-operate so closely against any predator that they were virtually attack-proof. Only their restricted diet and the climate kept their numbers under control. Now they were on the move, leaving the mountains before the winter closed in. They moved in a phalanx, the summer's vulnerable young kept carefully in the middle.

Ben Lacey dropped into the co-pilot's chair. He studied the readouts. "That one'll do," he said casually. He flipped the protection switch off the firing mechanism.

Energy weapons were useless for this particular job. The underbelly cannon spoke deafeningly, and one of the biggest of the creatures below suddenly stumbled and fell, its head a mess of blood and shattered bone. The phalanx broke apart, as much from the noise as from the fall.

Getting a second was harder, because the rest were trying to run as fast as their size would allow. The 'pod had to make a second pass, but Lacey was a good shot. Another head disappeared in a burst of blood and explosive.

The herd went into full-blown panic. They fled, pushing and nudging the youngsters to keep up. One or two couldn't manage. Lacey fingered the cannon's trigger again as the 'pod swooped down over them, but even this mission had certain rules. He scowled, and let them run on.

"That'll bring 'em," he drawled, turning aside to the scanners.

His companion Ned Barrowby was visibly nervous. It was his first time at this particular job.

"Can't we … can't we just put down and _call_ them?" he asked.

Lacey chuckled nastily. Even the pilot grinned.

"You can if you like, kid. I'll even try to get enough of you back up to bury."

Barrowby blinked, and fingered his pulse rifle nervously. "I don't get it. I know what they said on the ship, but … heck, it's only been three months, not three years!"

"Three months down there? It's not Earth, laddie-boy. Lots of nasty things in the air down there. Makes your mind do all sorts of funny things. Makes you believe what you have to believe. _Whatever_ you have to believe."

The youngster licked his lips. "But afterwards … afterwards they're okay, right?"

Lacey shrugged.

"As okay as they need to be, to do what _they're_ going to be asked to do." The pilot answered for him, indifferently.

"Picking up signs. Coming in fast from the west. The targets are with them. Close together – that'll make it easier." He laughed lasciviously. "Maybe we'll get lucky, if she shows him the goods. We'll get both of them with one shot!"

He laughed even more at the look of horror on Barrowby's face. Maybe it would be entertaining to leave the two captives in the same holding cage. When they came around they'd provide the kid with a whole new page of his education.

But on second thoughts, no … sometimes the memories persisted even through the cruel processes that would bring back humanity to those crazed brains. And when you'd just created two ruthless killers, now ready for the rest of their training, you didn't want them mad at you personally. Because afterwards they might decide that you'd exceeded your orders, and once this pair joined the ranks of the Section's mindless murderers they'd be like all the others – very, very good at arranging ingenious ways for you to die.

"Aw, I'm only kidding," he said roughly. "We'll do what we need to, that's all. Or would you rather we just left them down there?"

"No – no, of course not." Ned fiddled with the nets as the 'pod veered away; the noise of the engines would disturb the super-pack of predators, making them reluctant to approach. The two corpses would feed both packs for weeks, laying down a store of fat that would shore them up against the winter, but the animals were still nervous of anything as alien as a shuttlepod.

The pilot sent the craft in a wide loop around the mountains and set it down for perhaps fifteen minutes in a distant meadow while Lacey watched the scanners.

"Time to go." He nodded to the youngster. "Get your harness on. I don't want you falling out when the hatch opens."

He donned his own harness as the 'pod lifted off and began the return circuit. Both pulse rifles were now secured ready by the hatch. Designed specifically for the task, they had no 'kill' setting. There would be no chance of accidentally killing such valuable specimens.

As the shuttle swooped low again over the site of the attack, it was visible that the wolves had already started to take advantage of the bonanza. They were eagerly seeking out the few soft parts in the armored hide and tearing at it, scrambling over one another in the haste to be adding their strength to the attack.

"There they are." Lacey pointed. He and Ned were now wearing face masks and respirators. So was the pilot. Sometimes the operation took a while, and there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks.

"Jeez, they're – they're just – !"

"Shut up and shoot." He leveled his own rifle. It had bothered him too, the first time. Now it was just something he pushed to the back of his mind.

He was a good shot; that was why he was chosen for this job. That, and his lack of imagination. He squeezed the trigger, and the lean body in its stinking wolfskin arced backwards, falling among the busy wolves, who ignored it.

Ned's shot came a second later. The second body tumbled.

Lacey turned to the pilot. "Hold us steady."

The winch arms paid out smoothly as he and Barrowby dropped towards the ground. The wolves glared apprehensively up at the shuttle, but they had the taste of blood now and wouldn't willingly leave it.

"You're sure they won't attack?"

"Damn sure." They never had up till now, but lingering anxiety made his reply short and snapped.

He was right, of course. The wolves had other things to think of, but even so he wasted no time; as soon as his boots touched the ground he unclipped the net from his belt and unrolled it, fastening two of its loops to the waiting hooks on the end of the winch line.

He was still careful not to push his luck, though. He made sure that he gave any of the wolves near him a very wide berth. It took him a few moments to negotiate a way to the nearest of the fallen targets.

It was the male. At first glance, his wide-open gray eyes and fixed grimace of hatred made it look as though he was dead, but a glance at the scanner confirmed he was simply stunned. With brisk, businesslike efficiency Lacey tumbled the guy into the net and secured it; time enough to check him out properly when he was on board.

Ned was dealing with the woman. He was nervous, and nervousness made him slow. With a curse, Lacey unhooked himself, strode over and hauled her into position, dragging the last two hooks up to the winch coupling.

"See? Nothing to it." He re-secured his own harness and pressed the button on his cuff that would signal the pilot that they were ready to be brought back on board.

The winch was fully computer-controlled. It brought them back to the decking without event. In a very little time the hatch clanged closed, the air was vented and replaced, and they were free to remove their respirators.

The prisoners had not moved. They lay tangled in the netting. If you were impressionable, there was something horrible in their faces; something that said they were no longer quite human.

Fortunately, he wasn't impressionable. He ordered Ned to get the holding pens ready, dragged the nets clear and began a cursory examination. The doctors on board would want a preliminary report so they could be ready to start treatment as soon as the shuttle docked.

Jeez, that arm was bad. It would have to be reconstructed. Lucky the guy hadn't lost it. But the damage was old, and it was a testament to his toughness that he'd survived with such a severe injury. Other than that, he'd only sustained the usual crop of scars.

The woman had no broken bones, but she'd been badly bitten on the calf recently and sepsis was setting in. Fortunately they'd caught her in time. He saw new, human bite marks on the back of her neck and grinned to himself; they'd hardly broken the skin, but it would mean the docs would need to make sure she wasn't carrying puppies.

"Are they okay?" the pilot shouted back.

"Just the usual." He straightened up. The boss would be pleased. Two survivors, and relatively little damage.

Ned had the cage doors open and had dragged over the mattresses. He looked down with mingled awe and repulsion at the two bodies on the floor. He'd get used to it. The Section required a steady supply of killers, and no method had ever been found that surpassed this one at providing them.

Between them they bundled each of the ruined human beings on to a mattress and pushed it into a cage. The doors were secured with combination locks, in case of accidents. In the past, supposed wolves had proven to have retained terrifying amounts of human ingenuity.

He walked back to the co-pilot's seat. Barrowby remained crouched by the cages, staring in at what they contained. It did take a bit of getting used to. At least the kid had enough sense to leave a sensible distance between himself and the bars; the effect of the pulse stun varied, and a strong individual could recover with surprising speed. The first thing the doctors on board the mother-ship would bring along was a tranquillizer gun, and they wouldn't ask questions before they used it.

Still. That was none of his business. He'd done his job, and the last thing he had to do was report it complete.

The comms board was at the side of the console. He turned the chair and keyed in the code, activating the scrambler as a matter of course.

"Patch me through to Mister Harris," he said.

 

**The End.**

**..For now!**

**Author's Note:**

> All reviews will be very much appreciated!


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